


if the fires don't burn it down (the rains will wash it away)

by darkerstarss



Series: the reason why we live this life [1]
Category: A Wrinkle in Time (2018)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, How convenient, Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Meg is a Good Bro, Post-A Wrinkle in Time, calvin is a good bro, calvin just needs a friend, kind of romantic but not really yet?, meg needs a friend too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:54:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23541160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkerstarss/pseuds/darkerstarss
Summary: the ugly storm brewing in the sky was hardly as rough as the one in meg's own mind.or in which calvin o'keefe turns to meg murry for help, one cold september night
Relationships: Meg Murry O'Keefe/Calvin O'Keefe, Meg Murry/Calvin O'Keefe
Series: the reason why we live this life [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1694128
Comments: 3
Kudos: 30





	if the fires don't burn it down (the rains will wash it away)

**Author's Note:**

> okay, so this is the first in a series (probably.) honestly i don't think the fandom for this is super huge but i rewatched the film and i've gone back into shipping mode, which will keep me up at night for at least a few days until it wears off, so...
> 
> also, i think (?) they're in eighth grade in the movie, but in this story they're in ninth grade because i honestly feel a little strange writing an eighth-grade romance. there's no romantic interaction in this piece, really, but probably in the next part.
> 
> i used a little bit of dialogue from a deleted scene on camazotz towards the second half, just so i don't get accused of plagiarism. anyway, i hope you enjoy this (my first piece for meg and calvin)!

_you spend your nights looking at the stars_   
_thinking your life would be better on mars_   
_checking your pulse just to feel it beat_   
_looking for a stone to keep the peace_

**stone, jaymes young**

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“You look pretty today.” 

Biting into her sandwich, Meg examined herself; she was wearing her usual choice of faded jeans and t-shirt, a thin jacket over top since autumn had begun moving in. They weren’t even clean, and her jacket boasted a soup stain on the left arm that absolutely _refused_ to wash out. “Uh, thanks.” 

She was almost used to Calvin O’Keefe. 

Every day for the two weeks since they had returned from Camazotz, Calvin had been eating lunch with her just outside the school, rather than sitting with his normal friends in the back hallway. It was strange, to say the least; Meg was used to eating in silence, filling the hour with a book or YouTube videos, or — when she was in a good mood — homework. But she hadn’t actually had company during lunch since the first quarter of fifth grade. 

“How do you think you did on the Avery quiz?” the boy questioned, resting his back against the rough cement bricks of the school. He punctuated his question by tipping his nearly-empty bag of Doritos above his mouth, shaking the crumbs out. 

Shrugging, Meg reached down to pull at a blade of grass tickling her ankle. “I don’t know. It wasn’t _too_ hard,” she paused, leaning forward and looking at her friend, seated on her right. “The Krebs Cycle is what gets me. I hate photosynthesis.” 

“You hate everything,” Calvin chuckled with a shake of his head. 

The girl opened her mouth to argue, but shut it with a huff, slouching against the wall. “Not _everything_.” 

“Okay,” Calvin dragged, resituating himself to face her. “Name one thing in this school you don’t hate.” She began to respond, but he cut her off. “Besides Charles Wallace.” 

Meg groaned and tilted her head back, closing her eyes in an attempt to ward off the sun. “I like the library.” She paused and bit her lip. “And you.” With a short laugh, she turned and looked at him again. “And... that’s about it.” 

For a long moment, they sat in silence as Meg finished with her turkey sandwich and stuffed the rest of her trash into a used ziploc bag, to throw away later. When she lifted her head once more, she met Calvin’s eyes, realizing that he had been looking at her. To her dismay, the boy didn’t shy away even when she noticed. 

Suddenly feeling self-conscious, she cleared her throat. “Y’know, you don’t have to hang out here. I’m fine and dandy on my own.” 

“That’s exactly why I sit with you.” 

“I’m just saying,” the girl hummed, crossing her legs and turning to face him as well. “I’m not _exactly_ you’re normal crowd. If you wanna leave, nothing’s stopping you.” 

“And here I thought I was one of the three things you don’t hate.” 

“Which could so easily become zero of two.” 

Laughing, Calvin broke out into a small coughing fit, and Meg leaned over to give him a firm pat on the back. But no sooner than her hand made contact did the boy grimace and release a small yelp, pulling away from the touch. 

Eyes widening, Meg yanked her arm back. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” 

“It’s okay,” he assured his friend, rubbing his arm through his jacket. “I’m just... a little sore.” The boy attempted to pass his words off nonchalantly, but his voice sounded with a heavy sense of pain, and Meg quickly grew concerned. 

“Sore from what?” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“It’s clearly _not_ nothing,” Meg argued, not convinced. Moving closer to him, she reached out to put a hand on his shoulder. “Calvin, if something is wrong, you can tell me.” 

Calvin shrugged away once more. “Nothing is wrong!” 

Suddenly, before he could react, Meg grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it upwards, revealing the nasty bruise just left of his spine, on the lower area of his back. It was just larger than her fist, colored an ugly black, yellow and gray around the edges. 

She sucked in her breath at the sight. 

“Oh, Calvin...” 

Calvin recoiled quickly, pulling his shirt back down and snapping his neck in all directions, checking to make sure no one else had seen the wound. Luckily, the other students eating outside were spread few and far between on the school lawn, so their commotion had gone unnoticed. 

Meg reached out and grabbed his hand, pulling his attention back to her. “Calvin, _what_ happened?” 

“It’s nothing, I swear! I just...” he trailed off, reaching up and rubbing the back of his neck. “Troup passed to me at practice yesterday and it hit my back.” 

But if Meg prided herself on one thing, it was her intelligence. Besides, she wasn’t born yesterday. The bruise was _at least_ three days old, and there was no way it came from a basketball — _especially_ not one thrown by Troup Howards, who was as scrawny as they come. 

At the sight of it, the vision came back to her mind. The vision she’d been trying not to focus on too much, and since Calvin had never spoken of it after their return, Meg never brought it up either. But she couldn’t help but think about what the Happy Medium had showed them; Calvin’s father and his temper. 

The vision of one of the most popular boys in school, looking smaller than a speck of dust, seemingly willing the sofa to swallow him whole as his father yelled. Like he was trying to disappear. 

“Calvin...” 

Her voice was hardly over a whisper, and she reached for his hand, but the boy recoiled. 

“I _don’t_ want to talk about it.” 

“But-” 

“Meg.” His voice was stern, save for the smallest hint of fear lacing the edge of it — sadness. It was strange; a sudden difference from his usual casual tone. Meg started to say something again, but Calvin shook his head before she got the chance. “Just... let it go.” 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

But Meg couldn’t let it go. Though she had no classes with Calvin in the afternoon, she spent the rest of the day thinking about him — worrying about him, to be specific. She worried about the bruise on his back and about _who_ put it there. 

And about why Calvin hid it from her. 

By the time school was over, she was so anxious her hands were practically shaking, and she’d scratched a red patch on her hand. Knowing that he had basketball practice that afternoon, she considered pushing her way against the flow of high schoolers rushing to the buses and finding Calvin in the boys’ locker room. 

She very well would have done this, had she not remembered a split-second before that her brother would be waiting for her. He wasn’t allowed to walk home alone, and the last time the young boy had taken the bus, he’d stepped off with a wad of minty-green gum in his hair. 

So, with but a glance in the direction of the gym, Meg made her way through the crowded halls and out to the sidewalk, finding Charles Wallace at their usual place and greeting him with a ruffle of his hair. 

She was only half-present for the walk home, which usually took only twenty minutes, but felt like an hour as her little brother droned on about whatever he had been entertaining himself with recently; likely a scientific study of some sort, as he had been spending most of his time after school trading ideas with their father. 

Meg simply couldn’t get the worry off of her mind. Though Calvin had never spoken much to her about his home life, that one glimpse — the fraction of a moment the Happy Medium had granted her — unsettled her greatly. She saw it over and over again, the sadness, the repressed panic on Calvin’s face becoming clearer each time. 

Suddenly, the girl was pulled from her thoughts by a hand grabbing at her curls, albeit gently. 

“Hey!” Meg cried, stopping where she stood and looking down at Charles Wallace, who wore a strange expression on his face. “What was that for?” 

The boy just pointed forward, and as she followed his hand, Meg realized that she had very nearly walked in front of a car on the street. 

“You’re welcome.” 

With a deep sigh, the girl looked to make sure no other vehicles were coming before leading her brother across the street. “Sorry, C. I didn’t... thanks.” 

“You’re not listening to me,” Charles Wallace observed. He peered up at his sister, matching her unusually hurried stride with a bit of effort as he spoke. 

“I know,” Meg sighed, fixating on the ground and counting the cracks in the sidewalk, trying to ease her worry. “I’m sorry for that too. There’s just... a lot going on up here.” She made a weak tap to her temple with her pointer finger. 

Calvin carried the conversation with a certain lull that meant he expected she was no longer paying any sort of attention. “New word of the day: _perturbed_. Feeling worry or concern.” 

It never ceased to amaze Meg how much her six-year old brother knew about the world, about life itself. Sometimes she thought he knew her better than she knew herself, which was entirely possible given that — in all the recent changes — she wasn’t quite sure just _exactly_ who that was. 

But Charles Wallace always had a certain knack for knowing what was running through someone’s head. Recently, their father had begun to call it _kything_ , a word he’d once found buried in an old Scottish dictionary and stashed in the remote corners of his mind, as if waiting for just the right time to use it. 

The rest of the way home, Charles Wallace continued talking, about the rudimentary _Magic School Bus_ episode on chicken eggs his science teacher had put on that day. Meg tried to remain mostly present in the conversation, but still, parts of her mind wandered to the dark places. 

The It was still there. The It would _always_ be there. Like a shadow hidden away, in the darkest parts of your mind, waiting for the right moment. 

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

That night, the ugly storm that had settled in the sky was hardly as rough as the one brewing in Meg’s mind. 

She’d tried to call Calvin three separate times that afternoon, before eventually texting him and telling him to call her back. She never got a reply, which did nothing to ease the worry still churning in her stomach. 

The girl spoke only a few times during dinner, which went fairly unnoticed since the other Murrys were focused on catching Alex up on current events — both in the world, and their own lives. She couldn’t focus on her homework, either, which wasn’t out-of-the-ordinary, but she found that even when she picked up a book or turned on the television, her mind still wandered. 

Eventually, Meg had been sent up to her room in the attic, but found herself unable to sleep. After more than an hour of tossing and turning, she wandered around her room, reading over her poster of the periodic table once before settling on her mattress and crossing her legs, staring out the window beside her bed. 

She sat there for what must have been at least another twenty minutes, looking out at the neighborhood below. Had the weather not been so ferocious, she would have opened her window to peer up at the clouds. Instead, she settled through looking up at the sky through the glass. 

Because they lived just outside the city, there wasn’t all that much to see; even so, there were usually enough stars to point out at least a few constellations. But that night, there were none to be seen, which only caused Meg more anxiety. 

If there _was_ any peace to be found that night, it was broken when a large crack of thunder sounded, an accompanying flash lighting up the skies as the old bones of the house echoed the cry. 

Finally, realizing that sleeping was out of the cards — at least for the time being — Meg put on her slides and made her way downstairs to the kitchen. She put a cup of milk on the stove, then added a cup or two more in case Charles Wallace came down to join her, which was unlikely, given the hour, but possible. 

The milk had only just begun to warm when a noise sounded from the front porch, startling the girl. Her shoulders stiffened and her neck snapped up and in the direction of the door, but Meg let out a relieved breath when she realized it was likely her cat, Newton, who had a habit of going missing only to turn up a while later. She went towards the door, knowing that the Russian Blue absolutely _hated_ being wet, which she really couldn’t blame him for. 

But when Meg opened the door, she did not find her cat; she found a boy seated on the top step of her porch, just out of the way of the storm, resting his head against a wooden post. 

“Calvin?” 

Calvin’s head jerked towards her at the noise, and Meg gasped at the sight of his face. Though most of it was shadowed by the night, the long, ugly cut across his right cheek was prominent, dripping blood down the whole side of his face, mixing with the rain that had soaked him to the bone. 

“Oh my God, are you okay?” She rushed out into the chilly air, crouching down beside her friend and reaching out gently to pull on his chin. 

“I’m fine,” Calvin lied. He forced a smile, but winced as it tugged his wound. 

“What are you doing here?” Meg brought her hand back and looked at the warm red staining her fingertips, shaking her head. “Never mind. Come inside.” 

Standing, she held out her hand, and after a slight hesitation, Calvin accepted it, allowing her to pull him up from the ground and inside the house. As quietly as she could, Meg locked the door behind them and led him into the kitchen. 

In the light of the kitchen, she saw how awful he really was. His eyes were red and puffy, and beneath the blood dripping down his face was the beginnings of another bruise. His wet shirt was stained with crimson, and it was streaked along his basketball shorts, where he’d wiped his hands; they were the same clothes he’d worn to practice, hours earlier. 

“Sit down,” she instructed, gesturing to the stools along the counter before hurrying towards the medicine cabinet. Calvin obliged. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, words slurring because of the laceration. “but I didn’t know where else to go and I was just... I didn’t know what to do.” 

“Hey.” Meg placed a hand on his shoulder as she returned, carrying a small first-aid kit. “It’s okay.” 

She set the kit down on the counter in front of him, standing just beside his stool; her parents had bought the thing after she’d split her chin tumbling from the top of the dome in their backyard, years prior. As she opened the small plastic box, it released a small _pop_. Silently, the girl pulled open a nearby drawer and picked up a small rag. 

“Here,” she told him, voice barely over a whisper as he took it in his hand. “Wipe your face.” 

She couldn’t tell if the wetness on his cheeks came from tears or the rain. 

As the boy did so, Meg moved to turn down the burner of the stove, deciding that the matter at hand was much more pressing than that of cocoa. Turning back around, she began to sort through the supplies in the kit as Calvin finished cleaning his face, more or less. 

Meg took the formerly gray rag — now a nasty shade of crimson — from him and dropped it in the sink to deal with later. She then retrieved another one and ran it under hot water, wringing it out slightly before bringing it up to the boy’s face. He flinched as it made contact with the wound, but remained still as she cleaned it, moving only his eyes to try and follow her movements. After the area was fairly clean, she stopped moving, and simply held the rag up against his face. 

“What are you doing?” Calvin asked quietly. 

“It has to stop bleeding before I can do anything. Can you hold it?” 

Nodding, Calvin reached up and took the cloth from her, watching as she returned to the sink to scrub her hands. 

“It’s too deep for antiseptic,” she hummed quietly. “It’ll hurt you. You need... you need to go to a doctor. I can go wake up my parents and-” 

“No.” The boy looked up at Meg as he spoke, voice low. “No doctors, no parents, just... please.” 

“God, what happened?” 

Calvin merely shrugged, eyes moving towards the ground. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he whispered, “My dad got mad, and he- he-” 

“He hit you,” Meg breathed, finishing the broken thought. 

“He was wearing a ring.” 

The next thing the boy knew, Meg had stepped closer and pulled him into a tight hug, careful to avoid touching his face and the bruise she knew was hidden beneath his shirt. Her eyes burned as they brimmed with tears, fogging up her glasses. 

After a moment, Calvin leaned and rested his head against her own, and Meg reached up beneath her glasses to rub the tears from her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She wrapped her arms a little tighter around him, reaching for his hand and intertwining their fingers. “I’m so, _so_ sorry, Cal.” 

“It’s not your fault,” Calvin mumbled, eyes shut and inhaling slowly. 

“It’s not _yours_ , either.” 

Another minute went by, before Meg let go with a sigh, walking back around to the first aid kit and fumbling around in it to find a small plastic bag of butterfly stitches. She tore it open and read the small blue print on the back. 

With a heavy sigh, she took the rag from the boy and reached out, slowly touching Calvin’s face. The cut was deep, running from just below his right temple to the corner of his mouth. It wouldn’t heal on its own — not near fast enough. Then, she pushed the cut together, starting in the middle, gently holding it in place as she set down the first stitch. Pulling her hands back, the girl let out a relieved sigh, gazing down at Calvin 

Reaching for another stitch, Meg began to continue the process of closing the wound, speaking softly as she did so. “There’s still a pretty good chance this will get infected. You need to go to a doctor, or the school nurse, even.” 

Calvin shook his head. “You know I can’t do that, Meg.” 

“They can help you, Calvin. If you tell them, they can help you.” 

The boy shook his head. “You don’t get it. They _can’t_ help me.” He paused, taking a deep, slow breath. “And even if they could, he’d kill me first.” 

Meg understood what the boy was saying, without him having to tell her the rough parts. Paddy O’Keefe was a well-liked man; an important person in an important law firm. He would never be convicted, and Calvin would be stuck there, and it would be _worse_. 

“How long..?” she dragged, setting down another stitch. “Since it started?” 

“After my mom died,” Calvin told her; he paused for a long moment to allow her to place the next stitch. “And then it got better. And then it went back and forth for a long time. But...” 

“What?” 

“After we got back, I confronted him. It got worse. And a few days ago... he lost a big case. He’s just mad, at the world, I guess. And he’s got no one else to take it out on.” 

“So, he takes it out on you.” 

Calvin nodded. “He says I’m not strong.” The words came out in hardly more than a whisper. “I’m too sensitive, too eager to please people. That’s not what men do. And it’s _his_ job to make a man out of me.” 

Meg cocked her head in confusion. “And that’s supposed to mean?” 

“Making me everything that I’m not, I guess. And when words don’t work... his fist does.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me before?” 

“It’s not exactly something I want everyone to know,” Calvin answered her, slowly, not wanting to meet her eyes. “Because then that becomes who I am. And CPS gets called, and either he takes it out on me, or I get thrown into a house where I’m nothing more than a government paycheck.” 

As he spoke, Meg packed up the first aid kit and returned it to the medicine cabinet. Spinning around on her heels, she planted her hands on her hips and took a long hard look at Calvin; he still looked a mess, wet clothes clinging to his skin and hair plastered on his face. He shivered, but tried to hide it. 

Meg reached up and scratched her forehead. “I’m gonna get you some dry clothes. I’ll be right back.” 

After a second of lingering, she quietly made her way up to her bedroom and dug around in her drawer for clothes that might fit the boy, who was at least a few inches taller than her. She found an old shirt of her father’s that she had kept when they boxed his things, and a pair of sweatpants she hadn’t quite grown into yet. 

Meg took the clothes downstairs and handed them to him, with a small nod. “These should do the trick; the pants might fit a bit odd, but... it’s all I’ve got.” 

“Thank you.” 

Calvin had been in the Murry home enough times to find his way to the restroom, so he went off on his own and locked the door behind him. He shut the toilet seat and dropped Meg’s clothes on the lid, turning to face himself in the mirror for the first time. His eyes widened in shock at what he saw. 

Though the deep red gash had been cleaned and was no longer bleeding, it was still immensely visible — a stark contrast to the pale skin of his face. The stitches stood out as well, six beige bandages keeping the cut from splitting open once more. It would still be there the next day, for weeks; but it was better than going to a doctor, who would be required to report it. 

He changed into the clothes, which fit fairly well considering the shirt was two sizes too large and the pants were for adolescent girls. When he finished, Calvin stopped once more to peer in the mirror, lifting a hand to touch what would surely turn into a large, ugly scar. It would always be there, like the mark they’d made on the universe, however small in the grand scheme of things. 

But it makes sense, of course, that when things wrinkle, creases are left behind. 

He took one more breath before unlocking the door and walking back out to the kitchen. As the boy approached the counter, he saw Meg standing by stove, looking down at a saucepan heating on the electric burner. Watching her, Calvin took his seat on the counter, causing the girl to turn around. 

She noticed the blood-stained clothes in his hands, and approached him. “I can put those in the laundry, if you want.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Calvin stuttered, handing over the crumbled clothes. “Thanks.” 

Meg left the room, walking down a hallway towards the garage, returning a minute or so later and taking the pan off the stove and gently pouring it into two glasses before making her way to the counter, handing one to Calvin and taking the seat next to him. 

“You can try to drink, but it might hurt,” Meg informed him. “And those stitches will only stay on twelve days, max.” 

“Thank you,” the boy mumbled, pulling his cup closer and letting the heat warm his hands. “For everything.” 

Meg reached out and rested a clean hand on his arm. “You can always come to me, okay? It’s not like I have any _other_ social commitments.” 

The corners of Calvin’s mouth twitched, forming a small smile that quickly fell flat. He neglected to say anything, though she could see the thoughts whirling around in his head. Inside, Calvin O’Keefe was screaming. 

“I don’t really know where you want to go from here,” Meg continued, voice falling up and down as she struggled to stay quiet. “You can’t hide that with a t-shirt.” 

Finally, after another long moment, Calvin spoke. “I’ll come up with something. Say I fell and cut myself on the corner of a table or something.” Every time he moved his jaw to so much as take a breath, let alone speak, he felt the sting of the wound once again. 

“This isn’t going to just go away.” Meg leaned on the granite counter, propping herself on her elbow. 

“You can’t tell anyone what happened,” he insisted, voice hoarse. “You have to swear that you won’t tell, Meg.” 

“I couldn’t let that bruise go, Cal. I can’t let _this_ go.” 

Calvin closed his eyes. “Please, Meg... I don’t need a hero. I just need a friend.” 

Still not wanting to listen, the girl shook her head. “If that were true, then why come _here_? You have tons of friends.” 

“But none like you.” 

At that, Meg felt her cheeks flush, and she was thankful for the dim lighting and the deeper tones of her skin that would hide it from the boy. 

Finally, after what must have been a minute of silence, she huffed out a sigh. “Fine, I’ll keep quiet.” Meg looked up to meet Calvin’s eyes again. “But you have to promise — and I mean _promise_ — that if it happens again, you’ll tell me.’ He opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Or no deal.” 

“Deal,” Calvin mumbled. 

“Okay... then you can sleep in my bed tonight. I’ll take the couch.” 

The boy shook his head, standing slowly. “No, I have to go home. If I’m not there in the morning... and your parents...” 

“We can cross that bridge when we get to it.” 

“You have to trust me, Meg. If you want to help me, this is how.” He paused, holding out his hand for her. “Do you trust me?” 

Allowing a small smile to creep up her face, Meg took his hand and stood. “Oh, alright. _Fine_.” 

Before Calvin left, she ran to the back closet and grabbed an umbrella and an old jacket for him to wear on the walk home, so he wouldn’t be quite so cold and he wouldn’t risk compromising the stitches. 

“You’ll text me as soon as you get home, right?” 

Calvin smiled. “I will, I promise.” With that, he stepped back out onto the porch and into the rain, into the storm that was just starting to clear from the skies. 

As she watched him walk away, Meg shut the front door, turning around to see a figure standing at the bottom of the stairs, causing her to step back in surprise. 

“Meg, what are you doing?” 

It was her mother, standing in her pajamas and looking drowsy as ever, as though she’d just woken up. Kate was well aware that on stormy nights, her children would come down to the kitchen and talk while sipping on cups of warm milk, but it didn’t often happen as late as it was — a quarter after midnight. 

Thinking quickly, Meg walked towards the woman. “I’m just... looking at the rain.” 

“You hate the rain,” her mom stated, lifting an eyebrow in suspicion. 

Meg just shrugged. “Well, I’ve decided not to hate it so much anymore.” 

**Author's Note:**

> subscribe to the series for more, and go check out my tumblr, @darkrstars
> 
> i'm not super proud of this, but i wanted to go ahead and get it out there, so i may edit it slightly and republish it in the future (the plot won't ever change though).
> 
> also, feel free to comment your thoughts, good or bad! i love hearing from you guys! if someone is out of character, let me know, as well as any other mistakes such as spelling/grammar so i may fix them!


End file.
